Epilogue: The Orphanage and the Clown
“WE paint our faces white so they won’t show emotion.”
Before the mirror, Pierre whitened his face, the rasp of a long-forgotten voice whispering at his ear.
“We draw vertical lines across our eyes because the clown is blind to evil. To the clown, everyone in the audience is a good person.”
Pierre picked up his brush and painted careful lines. Even with his eyes shut, he never missed—not by so much as a hair.
“Our lips are red so we can smile bigger, brighter. The clown is a joyous character—he’s always laughing. We draw tears beneath our eyes, but that sadness is not ours. It is the audience’s. It’s our job to take that sadness and leave happiness in its place.”
His hands moved easily, knowing just where the reds, blues, and yellows belonged, where to place the teardrop and the stars.
When he opened his eyes, a short, stubby little clown smiled back at him from the mirror.
He smoothed down his colorful, mismatched outfit. Every detail was just right. From a box, he gently pulled out a dove, kissed it, and tucked it into the secret hatch in his hat. He pumped his arms, and soap bubbles filled the room. He gave his necktie a yank—a fake ear popped out with a silly whoop!
This trick was new. He planned to pretend he couldn’t hear the children and shout, “Whaaat? I can’t hear you!” He had tried it out just the other day. They had loved it.
Without his makeup, Pierre found that people treated him like he was nothing but empty air.
The first time he stepped out into the world with a bare face, it startled him. No curious stares. No giggles. No delighted gasps. It was so strange that he wondered if he had died and turned into a ghost for a moment.
But no—he still got hungry. If he called out to a shopkeeper, they answered, plain and polite. No bright smiles, no expectant looks like he’d been used to.
This, he realized, was just what normal life felt like. And though it was simple and, in its own way, a little sweet, Pierre couldn’t help feeling a little restless inside. A little ticklish. A little…unsatisfied.
Before he knew it, he was donning the outfit of a clown once more. He did his makeup, put the dove in his hat, and hit the town. With his whimsical, candy-coated music box in hand, he bounded up and down the streets, singing his usual refrain: “Welcome, one and all, to Pierre Pierrot, Pierre the Clown’s Spectacular Sillytime Extravaganza!”
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✶✶✶
LATELY, Pierre had begun to try something new, following a bit of advice he had received from a certain someone.
He began visiting hospitals, orphanages, and places where the elderly gathered. There, he met people who were too busy to find him, too weak to leave their rooms, too shy for noisy crowds, or simply too poor to buy a ticket for a show.
Here was this whole world of people he and his grandfather had never gathered tears from before. It was a shame. But perhaps it was also an inevitability. Even a clown had to eat, after all.
He turned the handle of the box.
His feet began to move on their own, his arms swung wide, and bubbles floated into the air.
A wide smile spread across his lips, and a song slipped free.
Pierre became Pierre the Clown.
Amid a burst of cheers, Pierre the Clown leapt into the crowd.
He sent bubbles soaring, produced doves from his hat, multiplied balls in his hands, stumbled into invisible walls, climbed and descended unseen stairs—all to the delight of his audience.
Here, Pierre the Clown was “it” once more.
Here, before children with eyes round with wonder, cheeks flushed with delight.
He caught glimpses of countless gap-toothed smiles and heard the high, bright laughter of dozens of little voices ringing together like a chorus of tiny silver bells.
Sweeping his gaze across the sea of clapping hands—here was a smile, and there, and there—the child who had been crying just moments before, the shy one lingering in the corner, even the ones who tried to act above it all, adjusting their glasses with a serious air, were leaning forward now, drawn in with their whole bodies, laughing without restraint.
Here, at the center of all this joy, Pierre the Clown was at home.
Now came the time for the grand finale.
Pierre pulled out the long cylinder he had prepared just for the occasion. He held up his fingers and began to mime a countdown. The children sat still with bated breath. Then, bang! Like a mini cannon had gone off in the room, the top of the oversized confetti popper flew off, filling the room with a cloud of smoke. When the smoke cleared, little parachutes floated down from the air.
One quick boy jumped up and caught one. He peeled off the wrapper, looked at what was inside, and popped it into his mouth. His eyes went wide.
“Mmm! It’s sweet! It’s candy!”
The room erupted. All at once, everyone leapt to their feet. Tiny hands stretched up, grabbing for the parachutes as they drifted down.
At first, it looked like the taller kids would take everything for themselves. But height came with age—and with it, a little bit of maturity, too. The biggest boy gathered up the candies and shared them with the smaller children who couldn’t reach.
What a wonderful orphanage this is, Pierre thought to himself.
“It’s a star,” mumbled a particularly small-looking girl, looking at the candy she held. Her big eyes glimmered. As did her plump cheeks, which seemed to shine under the light.
She held it up closer and closer, the drool practically coming out of her mouth, when another girl who looked much like her, probably her sister, pushed her hand down.
“It isn’t yet snack time, Mairi,” she said gently. “We must be patient, you and I. Be strong now, just as I taught you.”
The little girl looked despondently up at her older sister, then back down at the piece of candy. Tears welled in her baby blue eyes. A glance at the nearby clock revealed that it was one whole minute before it was the top of the hour, no doubt the aforementioned “snack time.” At once, the rowdy atmosphere died down. Arms drooped, eyes dimmed, and all the children seemed to shrink back in front of Pierre as if they had stumbled into a funeral.
Be strong.
How many times have these children told that phrase to themselves, he wondered.
Your mother isn’t here any longer. Be strong, be strong.
Neither is your father. Be strong, be strong.
You have no home, no job, and you’re starving. But you just have to be strong.
The wiry old woman watching over the children pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She gave Pierre a pointed look, then glanced toward the clock.
Ah. Pierre understood.
With a hop, skip, and a jump, he made his way over to the grand, old, towering grandfather clock. It had stood watch over every bit of the children’s hard work; surely, it wouldn’t mind a little indulgence now and then.
Pierre pulled out a big red scarf. He gave it a good shake—once, twice, three times—then tossed it into the air. It fluttered gently down, covering the face of the clock.
Then, with his foot and his cane, thump, thump, thump, he began to tap out the rhythm of the second hand.
He swayed to the left.
“Tick.”
He swayed to the right.
“Tock.”
The children blinked, glancing at each other, then back at him.
“Tick, tock.”
Thump, thump. The rhythm quickened.
“Tick, tock.”
“Tick, tock!”
An astute child caught on. Some faces lit up with recognition. Others stayed blank with confusion, but even then, they knew something was coming. Their eyes stayed locked on Pierre, waiting for the grand reveal.
“Tick, tock.”
“Tick, tock!”
More children joined the chorus.
“Tick, tock, tick, tock.”
“Tick, tock, tick, tock!”
Even louder still. The stomping of feet on the ground. Expectant eyes.
“Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick…!”
Then, with a sharp strike of his cane, Pierre hit the ground hard. At the same moment, he whipped the scarf away from the clock.
Pop!
His hat burst open, and a white dove soared into the air.
The second hand of the clock struck home, and the great clock let out three deep, resonant gongs.
Dong… Dong… Dong…
“Pieeerre!”
The room exploded into cheers. The older children, too, let smiles flicker across their faces—but they quickly reined them back in, their eyes turning toward a single figure. One by one, all gazes followed, swiveling toward that particular direction. Pierre didn’t even need to look. He already knew: all eyes were on the wiry old woman.
She stood there, arms crossed, with the same stern expression. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose once more.
The room fell quiet. A faint hush settled over them all.
Then, so small it almost seemed like a dream, she chuckled.
“The clock has spoken,” she said. “Go on, eat.”
The room erupted again, this time louder and happier than before. Big kids, little kids, all laughing, all shouting. When one child popped the last of his candy into his mouth and looked ready to cry, another rushed over and offered him theirs.
As the children laughed, chattered, and nibbled away at their sweets, the caretakers watched from the edges of the room, their eyes full of quiet, indulgent kindness.
A shaft of sunlight streamed in through the windows, bathing the timeworn, weathered, yet carefully polished wooden room in a soft golden glow. The different shades of the children’s hair, the varied hues of their tender cheeks, and their bright eyes were awash in that same dazzling light.
This is a place of warmth, a truly wonderful orphanage, Pierre the Clown thought, his bright red lips curling into a gentle, cheerful grin.